


Once Upon a December

by christinefromsherwood



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fair Amount of Cursing, Greg is ready to break things off, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sherlock wants him to stay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not happy,” Sherlock stated when Greg closed the flat door.<br/>“No shit, Sherlock,” he said bitterly as he sank heavily onto their couch, and with another breath he added: “I’m not sure if I can keep doing this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a December

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singthestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars/gifts).



> I wrote this at the prompt from singthestars (johnwatsons-mustache) who wanted a Shestrade hurt/comfort fic. So here it is, I hope you enjoy it, Kate :)

 

DI Gregory Lestrade fancied that being in his line of work for as long as he was, there wasn’t much that could surprise him about human nature.

Not that he thought he had seen it all, because there was the time when they found a corpse that couldn’t exactly be called _headless_ , because it had actually had a head forced on, only not a human one. But even the weird Death of the Chicken Man, as Anderson had insensitively taken to calling it at parties, was a murder done for very simple human reasons (if you could call the feeling that the victim was inadequately adventurous in bed a reason).

So, Greg wasn’t saying that he was incapable of being surprised by a crime scene, because human creativity knew no bounds. But human nature was a different thing altogether and people were the same everywhere.

God, he was starting to sound like Miss Marple!

Greg was very fond of reading Agatha Christie’s stories as a child, a fact that he made sure no one on the force had even an inkling of. He wouldn’t hear the end of it otherwise. And if this little fact manifested itself in his lenience towards a certain consulting detective, well....

Maybe if his Nana had read to him a little more of Enid Blyton and less of Agatha Christie, he wouldn’t be so inclined to put his trust into the detective skills of quirky civilians, or…

Well, in Blyton’s stories the ones who solved everything were children, so maybe Nana had the right idea, after all.

But you couldn’t exactly call Sherlock Holmes _quirky_ , could you? And that was the problem.

The man was a genius, of course. But he was also a massive pain in the arse and the cause of Greg’s prematurely greying hair.

It was like the man didn’t give a damn that he couldn’t simply take off running after a murderer just because he felt like it! There were police procedures for that and they were there for a reason, mainly to keep the policemen from being killed and/or maimed in action!

But of course, procedures and a simple survival instinct were _too boring_ for that brilliant lunatic! And God forbid that Sherlock Holmes was bored!

It was like he didn’t give a single fuck, that there were people who cared about him, and who surprise, surprise, didn’t want to see him get killed! That these people were fucking tired of having to walk up the stairs of 221B with a clenched stomach, scared shitless that he had relapsed, when he couldn’t be bothered to reply to a text! That these people – oh, fuck it! _Greg_ had had enough of being made to feel guilty by Mycroft and John whenever Sherlock got shot at, had broken a limb or burnt himself by one of his experiments.

_He was sick of it!_

He was the idiot’s partner, not his keeper and John of all people should know that you couldn’t make Sherlock Holmes do what he didn’t want to do! At the best of times, you could reason with him. Sadly, those times did not include chasing after serial killers and that’s why Greg found himself driving around the frozen, slick streets of London like a maniac with the grating sound of police sirens in his ears and fear like a heavy lead weight in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

They found him, of course. No thanks to Greg’s detective skills. Sherlock Holmes rang him up, when he had apprehended the criminal, and gave him the directions.

And then he simply sat there in the middle of the falling snow, with dark bruises forming on his face and arms, grinning like Greg should be pleased to see that he had bound James Wright’s hands with his stolen police handcuffs.

Greg had to only take a look to see that Sherlock didn’t bother to call as soon as he caught Wright, that he had taken his sweet time to gloat at him, to explain to the man his brilliant thought process. Greg had no doubt in his mind that it was a long time before Sherlock Holmes remembered the existence of Greg Lestrade and deigned it appropriate to relieve him of his misery and make that fucking call.

And that was probably the last straw, realising just how very insignificant he was to Sherlock.

Because DI Gregory Lestrade knew his fair share about human nature, and one of the first things anyone, even someone who did not deal with it on daily basis, could tell you was that it simply didn’t change.

And so, Greg didn’t smile at Sherlock in relief, didn’t even try to listen to the man yammering away at 100 miles an hour to his team, amazing them with his brilliant deductions again. He just stood there, staring at the man who could stroke his hair tenderly in the evening and then callously disregard his entire existence in the morning, when it suited his fancy, when it got between him making a spectacular, dramatic capture of a dangerous criminal.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Greg spoke suddenly and even though he wasn’t overly loud, something in his tone managed to stop everyone in their tracks. Even the great Sherlock Holmes went quiet, imagine that. “That’s fucking brilliant, Sherlock! You really outdid yourself this time.”

Greg could see the second that Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in at him and started deducing.

“Sally, could you take it from here? We’ll meet you tomorrow at the office for the full protocol.”

Surprisingly Sherlock didn’t complain about “not going in the police car” when Greg opened the door and jerked his head in its direction.

They drove to Baker Street in silence. That was not unusual. They were both men who didn’t speak simply to fill in the quiet, only this wasn’t one of their comfortable silences, when they were simply content to be together. Sherlock’s mind was busy working out Greg’s problem and Greg was just so incredibly tired.

They walked up the stairs, not even bothering to holler at Mrs Hudson as they usually did after a successful case.

“You’re not happy,” Sherlock stated when Greg closed the flat door.

 “No shit, Sherlock,” he said bitterly as he sank heavily onto their couch, and with another breath he added: “I’m not sure if I can keep doing this.”

In another situation it might have been funny, the way Sherlock went immediately rigid. Obviously surprised, because his deductions didn’t work out.

“If you would care to clarify. That is a rather ambiguous statement to make,” Sherlock said and to someone else it might have sounded pompous and snide, but Greg knew Sherlock well enough to hear the worry behind the words.

“What it means is that I’m tired. Of you running off into the blue, not giving a fuck about anything and anyone. And me being scared of coming too late and having you bleed out in my arms. I’m tired of trying to explain to you that I worry for a reason that the reason for my worry is legitimate because contrary to what you seem to believe, you are not immortal.”

Greg paused to take a breath and calm himself. He wasn’t sure if he could handle a shouting match with Sherlock right now.

“I’m tired of having my feelings and your health be an afterthought and I’m tired of asking myself why I’m letting you do this to me, when I know well enough that no matter what I get you to agree to do, you never follow through.”

“You do this because you need me.”

Ah, the old argument again, Greg couldn’t count how many times he had heard Sherlock say that in his infuriating know-it-all voice. Only things had changed a lot since the last time that argument had worked, even if the answer remained the same.

“Yeah, I do. God help me, I do. We both know that you’re much better at my job than I am and that the Yard wouldn’t have closed half the cases it did without you. But that’s never what I meant! I don’t need you to be a detective, I just need _you_!”

Greg wasn’t aware that he jumped up in the middle of his speech and started gesturing wildly with his hands. That fact came to him slowly as he realised the strange quiet in the room after he finished and let his hands fall to his sides.

They were both silent for a while after that. Both of them just staring, thousand thoughts and feelings flashing through their minds. Then Sherlock took a step closer.

“You need me,” he repeated slowly in a confused tone, as though he still wasn’t able to figure out what the problem was. “But you’ve got me.”

Greg chuckled mirthlessly.

“Yeah. Not really. I keep losing you every time you feel like showing off and conveniently forget to give me heads up.”

At that Sherlock’s eyes seemed to clear up as though he had managed to solve some great mystery and he straightened up.

“Oh, cut the crap, Gregory!” he said sharply and Greg blinked in surprise and opened his mouth in outrage. “Don’t look so offended, now! I am right and you know it. You’ve always known that I was going to be like this. I solve cases for you, you take the credit and wag your finger at me about procedure and nonsense like that and we all go home and let John blog about it.”

Sherlock Holmes was a complete jerk and Greg had no fucking idea why it surprised him anymore, he really didn’t.

“Just because you’re suddenly feeling like an insecure teenage girl with a crush doesn’t mean I’m going to pander to your idiocy and check “Yes” in your little “Do you still like me?” card. You know perfectly well the extent of my feelings for you, so quit being an idiot and come to bed. I’m tired after all that running I did today.”

That was it! Greg was done, he was 100% fucking done with this asshole!

“You know, you are right, Sherlock! And that was an excellent suggestion. Aren’t you on fire today?! I’m going to bed. In fact, why don’t we both go lie down! You need your beauty sleep and I’m going to need all the rest I can get for packing my bags in the morning.”

Greg chose to ignore Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.

“You’re right, I’ve always known you’d be like this and I have no idea why I even bothered to try talking to you. I am so fucking done, Sherlock, that you’ll be pleased not have me bothering you with my “insecurities” ever again. I fancy I’ll even be gone by the time you wake up tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Granted, stomping off into John’s former bedroom upstairs wasn’t the most elegant resolution to their argument and it would have given Greg much more pleasure to be able to slam the door on his way out of their flat. Only Greg had foolishly sold his old bachelor pad when he made the stupid decision to move in with the jackass and now he had nowhere else to go, except for his office at the Yard. And that was out of question, seeing as he’d have to walk past all the jerks, who had it right all along, see their knowing smirks and hear them gloat behind his back.

And so Greg found himself lying down in John’s old bed, shivering in the cold of the room that they never bothered to put the heating on in.

And he couldn’t fucking go to sleep! You’d think that having it out and finally making a decision would have cleared the air, or his head or some other bullshit, but No, sir! Greg couldn’t even have the comfort of sleep.

The bastard was probably snoring away down there without a care in the world, because why should he concern himself with the feelings of simple idiotic minds when his own was so grand and wonderful and…

Greg refused, he was a grown man and he simply refused! There would be absolutely no sobbing pitifully into a cold pillow, or other such bullshit! This was simply a bad end to something that was always a bad idea and there was no reason for Greg’s eyes to be watering and his nose to be prickling and he abso – fucking - lutely _refused_! That was not his fucking divi-

“Move,” came a voice right next to his head and Greg nearly jumped out of his skin. He was a fucking ghost or something, Greg didn’t even hear him walk up the creaking stairs.

“Piss off, Sherlock!” he whispered angrily, because it was dark and it felt wrong to shout. It definitely had nothing to do with the fact that his voice might break mid-sentence.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the intruder muttered and only Sherlock fucking Holmes would have the gall to forcibly move someone who had just broken up with him to the side, climb into his bed, steal his covers and manage to sound put-upon.

“I told you to piss off!” Greg bit out and jerked his body angrily when he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his chest.

“And I told you that I wouldn’t pander to your insecurity and yet here we are.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled against Greg’s back and he absolutely didn’t find it comforting despite himself. “We all sometimes say things we don’t mean, Gregory.”

Was that… Was that an apology?! Not that it would change anything, but it sure sounded like it. It didn’t matter though, this was Sherlock Holmes and you could never be sure with him.

“Not you, not the great consulting detective. The only one in the world. Because you fucking invented the job and no rules apply to you and you simply don’t give a damn an-“

Greg felt Sherlock’s lips press into his neck and a whispered “Shut up, Greg.” And he shut up, surprised at the man’s audacity, shivering. From the cold.

“I would really like to get some sleep before you march me to the Yard to sign the stupid protocol you insist on.”

This was incredible! Un – fucking - believable!

“But I’m leaving in the morning!” Greg said and he couldn't keep the bewilderment out of his voice, because seriously? Greg would have thought that "I'm packing my bags in the morning" had made the situation pretty clear.

“No, you’re not,” Sherlock rumbled against his back again and tightened his arms around him. “I’m not letting you.”

Of course. How very romantic!  Greg wondered which soap opera Sherlock had heard this on and if he had any idea how wrong it sounded.

“Sherlock, I can leave whenever I want to! You cannot force me to…” Greg turned around to make sure he got his message across, because this was Sherlock Holmes and he didn’t function like normal people and obviously didn’t get the message when you were breaking up with him.

Apparently he thought that kissing was acceptable during a break up, too!

It took a while before it dawned on Greg what he was doing and he forcibly tore his mouth away and jumped out of bed.

“What the fuck, Sherlock?! What do you think you’re doing?!” he shouted, no longer caring that there were tears streaming down his face.

Because this fucking hurt, okay? It hurt enough without Sherlock making it worse!

“Just get out! Get the fuck out!” Greg knew he was being loud, that he probably woke up poor Mrs Hudson downstairs and some people several streets over.

“No, I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock replied in his most stoic voice and Greg wished he had something hard to hit him with. “I’m not leaving until you know what I came here to tell you.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Where was this one from, The Eastenders or maybe Pride and Prejudice that was on last Sunday? He forced himself to calm down, because that was the only way to get Sherlock to leave.

“If you must,” Greg bit out and folded his arms.

And then Sherlock took a deep breath and looked away.

“I was lying in my bed and I couldn’t sleep. And I kept wishing that the dawn would just break already, because I was cold to my bones and there was nothing to do except wait for the morning and hope that the sun would warm me up again,” Sherlock began and Greg raised his eyebrows.

Really? This was what Sherlock had chosen to tell him? That he couldn’t wait till the morning to see him gone?

“And I missed you and I had no idea why. Because I expected to feel sad about leaving John and I was, but I had no idea why it was that I kept thinking about you. And I just couldn’t figure it out and I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like missing you. I hated that I couldn’t remember, that I _deleted_ your first name, I felt ridiculous because it wasn’t like calling it out in the night would somehow bring you to me. And I had no idea why I wanted you there, hunting down Krog and Bogomolov with me.”

Greg’s arms had unfolded without him even knowing about it and suddenly he was sitting down on the bed heavily. Because Sherlock never talked about the two years he spent hunting down the baddies all over Europe! Because this was all Sherlock and none of it were lines from crappy TV,  and Greg suddenly really wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say.

“Once, I got badly injured and for the first time I realised that maybe I wouldn’t be able to come back. The possibility of me not returning never occurred to me before that. And then I suddenly recalled staring at the door to your office, deducing every single detail about the inner workings of Yard from the polishing on the plaque on it, the plaque that has your name on it. And I got better.”

Greg was just staring at him open-mouthed. Sherlock paused for a moment, looked him in the eyes and smiled wryly.

“I know it’s stupid to think that remembering your name had anything to do with it, but it’s all I can remember from that time.”

Greg had no idea what to think, what to say to that. Because it shouldn’t have mattered what Sherlock had just said, it didn’t really change anything about the situation. But for some reason it did.

“Sherlock… I…”

“I missed you very much during the two years I was away and I’d miss you even more if you were to leave tomorrow, because you wouldn’t come back. I love you, Greg, and I need you to stay here with me. That’s it. I don’t want to miss you again, I didn’t like it the first time. So stay, please.”

And Greg had no idea why that was enough, but it was. Sherlock was right, Greg had always known that he’d keep running after criminals, disregarding every rule in the book, that’s probably what made him so good.

And so he bent his head and kissed the brilliant detective. Because he was staying, because he’d miss him too.

“Alright, now get up,” Greg said when they finally broke the kiss and he rolled his eyes at the flash of panic in Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re going downstairs. It's cold in here and I don’t fancy freezing my balls off!” 


End file.
